The Art of Coping
by World'sOnlyConsultingTimeLady
Summary: John has finally found a way to deal with the detective's apparition- bloodshed. But what happens when Sherlock returns to his broken doctor? Johnlock.
1. Chapter 1

**This is my own take on a particularly interesting plot twist I saw for the Sherlock reunion. **

***** This first chapter (THERE WILL BE MORE CHAPTERS-THIS ISNT THE END) is present-day, while the next chapter will be looking back at the first year w/out Sherlock and the next chapter will be the next year, then the chapter after that will most likely pick up from here or be in Sherlock's POV. **

**Thank you for reading! :) **

* * *

THREE YEARS AFTER THE FALL

* * *

It had been a long time since Sherlock jumped off of the roof of St. Bart's, and John sat in his chair across from the detective's leather seat, staring at the man in front of him.

The man in question sat across from John, hands resting on the chair's arms as he stared at the calm doctor.

John chuckled, completely at ease, and closed his eyes. Opening them again, he was rewarded with the sight of the detective.

He got up out of the chair and reached for the familiar knife resting on the barren kitchen table. The blade hovered along the multitude of scars from previous cuttings as the doctor studied Sherlock's face. The detective made no move to stop John from drawing blood, although his eyes flashed and his right hand twitched.

John turned away from Sherlock, quickly wrapping a clean bandage around his bleeding arm, and grabbed his jacket.

He exited the flat, quickly followed by the detective, and, ignoring the multiple cabs in the street, walked to the store.

Sherlock hovered around John, blending in with the crowd, and received not one glance from the many people bustling along the street.

The doctor walked into the store, wandering into the frozen products section, and began looking at milk. Quickly locating the bottle he desired, John stared for a moment longer at the shelves with a quizzical look on his face.

John felt the detective's puzzled stare as he stood in the middle of the isle. The seconds turned to minutes, and the minutes turned to an hour before John moved once again. A pretty woman tapped his shoulder.

She asked him if he needed help; he replied that he was rubbish at shopping. She offered to help him look for the rest of his groceries, and was rewarded with a gracious, if not flirtatious, grin.

The pair walked the isles, picking up teabags, sugar, and a few other mundane items before checking out. The woman seemed to have forgotten that she came to the store to by her own food, because she left with John empty handed.

They paused outside of the store, moving out of the entrance so that other people could access the shop, and stood in the direction of Baker Street. John thanked her for helping him, and she replied by grabbing a bag of his groceries, claiming that he needed assistance to take his scant purchases home. He grinned and thanked her, leading the woman back to the flat.

John felt Sherlock's curiosity grow as the detective followed the pair back to the flat. The slightly predatory grin that stretched from ear to ear wasn't missed by the detective, though the woman wasn't paying attention, instead, she blathered about the weather.

Her voice grated on the doctor's ears.

They reached the flat, John unlocking and opening the door for the woman as she continued mindlessly chattering. She set the groceries on the bare table, and then asked if she could use John's loo. He showed her where it was and returned to the kitchen.

He repositioned the knife in his jacket, his thumb caressing the handle as he waited for the woman.

Sherlock sat once again in his chair, his face blank as he stared at the doctor.

John was irritated by the unwelcome presence of the specter and allowed himself to be comforted with the knowledge that it would be over soon.

The woman emerged from the loo and walked to the kitchen. John was putting the last of his purchases away and began to make tea. He made two cups, ignoring her when she told him how she liked her tea.

He brushed past her and set the two beverages on the desk by the leather chair the detective was currently residing in.

She heard him mutter something in the direction of the leather chair, something about making tea without drugging it, and her eyes flickered toward the seat before resting once more on the doctor.

The flirtatious grin had morphed to one of savagery and rage.

She backed away from him, not daring to look away from him for a second, until her back hit the wall.

He chuckled, reaching into his jacket and pulling out a sharp knife.

Her body shook as she began to sob.

_Please. _

Upon reaching the sniveling woman, he cut her arms, watching in morbid fascination as blood began trickling from her wounds. Her eyes widened as she gasped from the sight of her blood dripping on the floor.

It was then that she noticed little stains of red all throughout the flat; it was then that she knew she wasn't his only victim.

He began cutting her up, blood spurting everywhere as her wounds morphed from slow, thin, surface cuts to angry, fast, deep plunges of the soaked blade.

When his work was done, he turned away from her body, no longer holding it against the wall. It slumped and fell to the ground with a sickening thud.

John ignored the corpse as he stared at the detective on the couch. He relished Sherlock's horrified expression.

It wouldn't be long now.

He continued watching the detective, going from smug satisfaction to furious frustration.

Why hadn't the apparition vanished?

He stalked towards the detective, looming over the man. He began screaming, demanding to know why he wouldn't disappear.

He was silenced when realization dawned.

John stretched his hand out, wincing as it made contact with the detective's shoulder.

Sherlock Holmes was alive.


	2. Chapter 2

FIRST YEAR WITHOUT SHERLOCK

* * *

The first year without Sherlock was probably the worst thing John had ever gone through. It was worse than Afghanistan- injury included.

The first month after Sherlock jumped off of the roof of St. Bart's was comprised of silence. John didn't speak or see anyone. He sat in his chair, staring at the leather seat the detective had occupied. He knew that Mrs. Hudson came into the flat and restocked the kitchen, but he never looked at nor spoke to her. The only times John would get up were when he needed nourishment or relief. When he wasn't doing those things, John just stared, his mind blank.

The only time his mind was active was at night, while he was asleep. He would have horrible, bloody (in every sense of the word) nightmares. They were varied, some of them depicting the fall or Afghanistan, but they all involved Sherlock dying right in front of John, often in his arms.

Even when the nightmares plagued the doctor, he didn't make a sound. He didn't scream or shout. His breathing would be rapid and ragged, tears would be streaming down his face, but not even a whisper could be heard.

It was the sort of silence that spoke volumes louder than the most heart-wrenching cry and spoke with far more eloquence than the most thought-out speech.

A few days after John realized that a month had passed since Sherlock's death, he fell into a peaceful sleep. It was the first time since the fall that he had a night of peaceful rest, and he hated it. His nightmares had been the only thing that allowed John to see his flat mate.

He had awoken with a shudder, his eyes not focusing on anything in particular. His head ached and his body felt as though someone had run him over.

He sighed, making noise for the first time, he realized belatedly, as he walked to the kitchen to make his meager breakfast.

He ate robotically, his head in a fog. What did it mean that he didn't dream about Sherlock? Was it going to become normal to have sleep as empty as reality?

Was he slowly beginning to forget the eccentric detective?

He froze, horrified. He wouldn't forget Sherlock, he _couldn't _forget him.

John wasn't sure how long he stood there, his entire being focused on the desecrating thought, before he shuffled back to his chair.

He sat down. staring at the ground before he looked up at the leather seat.

There was a person in the chair...

It couldn't be...

It was.

Sherlock sat in silence, staring at the doctor with such fervor that John's heart stopped. Could it be that the detective had returned to the grave for him?

John rushed to the man, torn between the desire to punch or hug him, and stood beside him. They grinned at each other, and John's pulse skyrocketed.

He wanted to be angry at the man for abandoning him, but the only thing that could come out of John's mouth was a simple confession, one overdone by teens and underappreciated by adults. He watched as the detective didn't say a word; he merely leaned forward, still grinning from ear to ear. John reciprocated, moving forward slowly until his face was inches from the detective.

Just as his hand touched Sherlock's, the detective's arm vanished. John stepped away, realization dawning.

It was all in his head. Sherlock Holmes wasn't real, wasn't alive.

He walked back to the kitchen, trying desperately to quell the newfound grief. He made tea; he needed some semblance of normality.

John prepared the soothing beverage mindlessly, not realizing that he made tea for two until he was pouring it into two cups. He sighed and took it back to the leather chair.

He needed normalcy, even if it wasn't real.

* * *

As the first year passed, it continued in this manner. John would wake up, sometimes from a nightmare and sometimes from a dark nothingness, and would see Sherlock across from him.

He would stare at the detective for a moment, before speaking. He would reach out and try to touch Sherlock, but he'd touch air. As soon as he removed his hand, the detective would reappear. John would then return to the kitchen and make tea for two. He would spend the rest of the day in either sorrowful silence or pointless blathering before falling back to sleep.

Every day he thought that maybe, just maybe, the detective wasn't dead. Every day he thought that maybe, just maybe, the detective returned to him.

The detective never once uttered a word.

At first, John didn't mind the change because, no matter how heartbreaking it was, the specter made sure John would never forget his dead flat mate.

But as the days passed, going from weeks to months, he grew desperate.

He didn't want to continue acting as though Sherlock returned to him _every single morning_.

He wanted to forget his flat mate.

But nothing worked. Touching him resulted in the disappearance of whatever his hand reached towards, but it only lasted as long as John continued making contact. As soon as he removed himself, Sherlock reappeared.

To make matters worse, the detective took to moving around. He would follow John into the kitchen, though never the loo.

One day, John was making himself dinner. He took out a knife and began chopping up carrots. His attention wavered slightly as Sherlock walked up behind him, and John accidently sliced his hand open.

Cursing, John grabbed a nearby towel, wrapping it around his bleeding hand.

It wasn't until hours later when he was finished cleaning the wound that he realized Sherlock had vanished.

He grinned, carrying two cups of tea to the chairs and setting them on the table next to his seat.

He felt free for the first time in what felt like years. There was no Sherlock to be seen, and it wasn't hard for John to imagine that the eccentric detective hadn't even existed.

When John woke up the next morning and glimpsed the apparition staring at him, he wasn't angry or happy.

For the first time since the fall, John was apathetic.

It didn't bother him at all that the specter was back; he knew how to banish it to the hell from which it sprung.


End file.
